During the afternoon, frightened people streamed into the clinic, asking questions Elaine couldn’t answer. Now the man with the answers had returned.
“David,” she hyperventilated. “Did you see the body?” Suddenly, she burst into hot angry tears.
“It wasn’t Ruby,” he said.
“What?” Elaine sputtered, her grief wasted.
“It’s not Ruby,” he repeated coldly. He wanted to avoid the fetid details. Above all, he wanted to sleep.
He reeled into his office and locked the door. At the window was the panorama of sky and mountains. The weatherbeaten beauty only exacerbated the disaster. He touched his pulse, his hair, his familiar and unfamiliar face, his self, stranger and friend, and collapsed on his cot, trying to blot out the broken and carelessly buried body. He felt for the loose floorboard, lifted and removed a safe box. Holding the box steady, he opened his treasure chest. Inside were vials of Fentanyl and Buprenex, a bindle of high-grade heroin, an envelope of crystal meth, Fentanyl candies, opium suppositories, Thai sticks, baggies of Mexican pot, an old cache of windowpane acid, and ampules of codeine. Variations of whatever it took to let him dream the dreams of a happy man.
He swabbed the web of skin between his largest toes with alcohol. The brilliant moon-cold sensation and smell sent a thrill through him, his psychic engine preparing for takeoff. He had a great affection for his weakness. Weakness was human. Weakness is what separated humans from gods, although in some mythologies it was precisely what connected them.
He stuck the tip of the needle between his toes and waited to see blood. Then, he connected the syringe to the tail of the butterfly needle and sank the plunger. Removing the needle, he pushed the works under his pillow, leaned back, inhaled, and waited. He began to float. Up, he floated. Or down, he couldn’t tell. He passed a dozen floors en route to oblivion, each with snapshots of memory: his wedding photo, his high school gym teacher, a playground swing, Judy Moskowitz’s nipples. Judy Moskowitz? He giggled. And always the river, the constant that led to the confluence of many rivers. Rivers of the west where he’d rafted and rowed past golden forests and tiger-striped cliffs. Mountain rivers, desert rivers, ribbons of water, flat and foaming. The double life of Dr. Tanner had trained him in the art of prestidigitation. When he reached his final destination, he would disappear. Evening checkout, morning return.
At dawn, he awoke. He left his office and headed a mile north to his low rambling adobe that sat solid like earth, made of earth, welcoming him. A sack lay by the door, a note tucked under the knocker. He fondled the paper in Kate’s careful handwriting—
Chopped mint and ground ivy soothe sleep, prevent nightmares. Love, K
He pushed on the unlocked door into the old adobe. White plastered walls, viga beams across the ceilings, tiled fireplaces, earthen floors polished with ox blood, and a profusion of woven and leather pillows. He put his dirty dishes in the sink to soak. He tidied his reading materials. He transported dirty clothes to the washing machine in the back shed. He stripped the two beds and changed the towels. While coffee brewed, he selected Madame Butterfly. Puccini was not his favorite composer. He preferred Donizetti and Verdi, but Puccini was dependably pleasing.
Most important, it was Madame Butterfly that he and Kate had heard in Santa Fe. A stark production that referenced apocalyptic Hiroshima in August 1945 with Butterfly played by a Japanese soprano, Pinkerton by an Italian, both handsome with strong acting abilities. Throughout the performance, David felt Kate’s unwavering attention on Butterfly, the abandoned woman. She wept without embarrassment. At dinner, she wept again.
David was back at the clinic by nine where there was a message from Marnie Bass to call her.
“Any news?” she asked.
“We had a bad scare yesterday,” David said. “A young woman’s body was found in the forest. It’s likely she was murdered.”
“The fear is Ruby will be discovered next.”
“I wish I could tell you she’s in Idaho.”
“But?”
“I’m not sure,” Marnie said. “I called the grocer in Salmon. Quinn recently came in and bought two or three cartons of canned food. That’s a lot for a boy who favors fresh vegetables.”
“What do you think it means?”
“Maybe he’s going out on the river but hasn’t told me. Then again, he might not. He knows I’m a worrier. Even if you know what you’re doing and Quinn doesn’t, it’s dangerous. But if he were trying to hide?”
“Hide?”
“The grocer said he saw a girl walk off with Quinn. I asked if he remembered our cousin, Ruby. He wasn’t sure. But he said he’d stop at the house.”
David found Kate in her yard. She hadn’t slept. She’d prayed all night.
“I spoke to Marnie,” he said, taking her hand. “She called.”
Kate started. “She spoke to Quinn?”
“She reached the grocer who’s seen Quinn.”
“Was he with someone?” Kate gripped David’s hand.
“A girl was outside the store but he didn’t see her face.”
Kate threw her arms around David’s neck. “That’s her!”
“No, Kate!” He had to be realistic. He had to suppress her wild speculations. He was pessimistic by nature. Medical training made him risk-averse. And river life? The river was where David had found the line between competency and helplessness, control and surrender.
Kate pointed to the Dodge. “It can easily get to Idaho.”
“Quinn probably has a girlfriend and doesn’t want his mother to know.”
“It’s Ruby.”
“But how could she get to Idaho?”
“I don’t know but that’s where she went. Quinn is Ruby’s big brother. He’d be the one to help her.”
“What if the police need you here?”
Kate shrugged. There was nothing more to discuss. Idaho was a long way. The drive would take close to twenty-four hours. It was a journey she knew well. She and Ruby had traveled there many summers to visit Ryan kin.
“What am I supposed to do?” David asked.
“Come with me,” Kate begged. “Come help me find Ruby.”